


And he's just been re-arrested...

by spiderfire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (at least I tried), Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Catholic Character, Depression, Gen, Imprisonment, Missing Scene, Non-Consensual Violence, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Valjean - world of sad, bicetre, no slash here, unexpected help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean is arrested by Javert on his way to rescue Cosette.  He is put on trial and condemned to death for crimes he did not actually commit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The arrest, Paris, end of February 1823

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [被捕之后](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490380) by [suya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suya/pseuds/suya)



> **A note on the setting if you have not read the book:** The “confrontation” scene at Fantine’s deathbed in the book and the movie/musical differ significantly. In the book, Javert arrests Valjean. Within a few hours, Valjean has escaped. Four days later, Valjean is arrested again as he is boarding a coach for Montfermeil, presumably going to get Cosette. In the intervening time, he withdrew a great deal of money from the bank and hid it in the woods. Valjean is put on trial and sentenced to death. The king, perhaps with the intercession of the Church, commutes his sentence to life and he is sent back to Toulon. Toulon holds him for just a few months before he manages to fake his own death and escape again. My story is begins with Valjean’s arrest at the coach.

Javert leaned against the side of a building, tucked between the pools of lamp light. Close to the building, he was sheltered slightly from the wind. In Montreuil-sur-Mer, so close to the ocean, the air would have been raw and damp, but here, in Paris, it was dryer and for that Javert was grateful. Despite the cold, the street was busy with people hustling about their business. He had missed the bustle of Paris over the last five years in sleepy Montreuil-sur-Mer, but he had never imagined that his return would be like this. 

In the shadows, it was impossible to see the dark lines under his eyes, or the creased state of his uniform. In the last four days, Javert had slept less than a ten hours and most of those had been while in coaches or slumped in the corner of an unfamiliar stationhouse. He held his cudgel in his right hand, swinging it into his left palm and then releasing it, over and over. He hoped that the motion would help him stay awake. 

He was loath to admit it, but at the moment, he was working on a hunch. Valjean, Javert knew, had several things he needed to accomplish. Valjean had already been to Laffite’s and had secured a great deal of cash. Javert had been too late to the bank to catch him there. Valjean would need a place to stay, and Javert was sure he would try to loose himself in the maelstrom of Paris. And then there was the promise Valjean had made to the prostitute Fantine about helping her daughter. The daughter was in Montfermeil so, he stood watching for the mail coach that would pass through Montfermeil before eventually winding its way out to Reims. If he was lucky, very lucky, it would draw his quarry. 

At last, the empty mail coach pulled up. The horses were watered while the mail was loaded on. Standing here, watching the proceedings, it occurred to him that he was doing this backwards. He should have gone out to Montfermeil and waited for Valjean to come to him. Clearly, the lack of sleep was getting to him. 

The coachman was getting ready to go when a nondescript man walked up, showed his ticket and boarded the coach. He had brown hair that stuck out in unruly curls from under a shapeless woolen cap, pulled down low over his ears. He wore rough workman’s trousers and a battered jacket. For no reason Javert could later explain, he emerged from the shadows and walked purposefully over to the carriage. His bearing, more than his rumpled uniform, identified him and the coachman frowned. “Can I help you, officer?” he asked, as Javert came close. 

Javert ignored the coachman and pulled himself into the coach. “Do you have a ticket?” the coachman was asking. The man in the coach flung open the opposite door and fled. 

With a feral grin, Javert leapt from the coach and raced after the man. Pedestrians scattered as one, and then two large men crashed through the street. It took less than a block, sliding on slushy snow, before the exhausted Javert caught his break. Had it been any further, he would have lost the man. The man ran down an alley that turned out to be a dead end. In panic, the man spun around, but there was no escape. Javert, panting for breath, blocked the way out. 

Javert looked at the man he had cornered. Fear tickled his inside for a moment when he was not sure if he had run down an innocent man, and then there would be apologies and excuses and his fitness for duty would be questioned. 

The man tried to push past Javert, back out to freedom. As he tried to duck Javert’s arm, the hat came off his head, taking a curly brown wig off with it. Underneath the wig was a head of white hair. Reckless in his exhaustion, Javert brought his cudgel around on the back of the man’s knees, dropping him to the ground. Javert brought his stick down again, this time across the man’s stomach and the man crumpled into a fetal ball at the inspector’s feet. 

Holding his stomach, the man glanced up and Javert was looking into the familiar clear green eyes of his quarry. Oh, what relief! A triumphant leer captured his face. “Jean Valjean,” he stated. “We meet again.” Behind him, he heard his backup, two constables he had brought along, run into the alley. “Are you going to come quietly, or is this going to be a fight?” He brought his cudgel up for a third strike but did not swing it. 

Valjean flinched. He looked past Javert to the constables. Javert could hear them close ranks, ready in case Valjean attempted to bolt. He made a mental note to compliment their commanding officer. Too many constables were not sufficiently trained in being effective backup. Defeated, Valjean looked back to Javert. “I’ll come,” he said. 

“What, no pleas for another day?” Javert asked. 

“Would it do any good?”

“No, but it is amusing to hear you beg.” 

Valjean was silent. 

“Get up.” Javert ordered. “Against the wall.” Valjean got painfully to his feet and put his hands against the wall. Javert efficiently frisked him, marveling at the turn of events as he ran his hands over the body of this man who was so recently his superior. Javert unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and fastened one around Valjean’s right wrist. He turned the unresisting man around, cuffing his hands in front of him. Taking hold of Valjean’s arm, he led him out of the alley. 

“You almost had me fooled,” Javert commented. 

“What gave me away?” 

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” 

********

The carriage ride to La Conciergerie occurred in silence. Valjean sat next to Javert, feeling the heavy weight of the inspector’s hand on him, never losing contact. For a few minutes, he watched the evening’s bustle of the city as the free men went about their business, and he tried not to let rage consume him. 

The city before his eyes faded from Paris to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and he thought back to a week ago, before he had any idea any of what was coming. He had just sent a ship full of bracelets and rosaries and baubles off to Spain. With that out of the way, he had thought he may finally have a few days to go for Fantine’s child. 

The next morning, he had gotten up and went to an early Mass, as he was accustomed. He found that the familiar routine of sitting, standing, kneeling focused his mind and as much as possible, he made it his practice to attend daily Mass. However, it had been two weeks into the Lenten season and the early morning services had taken on a particular importance. Lent, when the Savior’s faith had been tested, resonated deeply with him.

After the service, kneeling before a statue of the Virgin, he had prayed for Fantine, he had prayed for the continual success of the town and his business, but most of all he had prayed for that which he always prayed for. He had prayed he would be able to keep the gift of God’s grace and God’s forgiveness in his heart as he went through the day. Even after all of these years, the rage that Toulon had instilled in him would occasionally come bubbling to the surface. More times than he could count, he had gone to Confession to tell the priest of a moment of blasphemy, of a time when he had abandoned his vows, a time when doubt had overcome him, only to be told to pray to the Virgin for patience and for faith. Kneeling before Her, eyes closed, he had felt the warmth of the Pentecostal flame kindled in his heart. With a fierce joy, he had sat back on his heels and looked up at Her in quiet adoration. _Gratias Deo_ , he had whispered. Crossing himself, he had gotten up and walked into a day that, by its end, would test every scrap of his poor faith. 

Riding in the carriage, iron once again around his wrists, Javert’s dominating hand on his arm, he closed his eyes and tried to block it all out. He pictured the statue of the Virgin that he was so used to kneeling before. He tried to feel the Presence with whom he had spent the night in vigil on Her feast days. _Mother of mercy,_ he prayed, _give me faith in my moment of doubt. I am going to a place of great despair. Please, watch over me._ And then, in a sudden moment of horror, he remembered his errand tonight. Tonight, he had intended to go for Cosette. _Holy Virgin,_ he prayed, _please watch over Fantine’s daughter. Grant me the opportunity to still help her._ Then, with perhaps with even more fierceness than the prayer, he thought, _O, Fantine I am sorry! I will go to my grave trying to help your daughter._

Abruptly the carriage came to a halt, shaking Valjean out of his reverie. The imposing stone and tiny windows of the ancient castle turned jail filled his view and he felt the weight of the walls before they even closed around him. For a moment, a wild, futile impulse to run captured him, but he fought it down. Javert’s hand tightened on his arm. “Come, now,” Javert said, as he opened the door of the carriage and got out. Valjean slid to the edge of the seat and got down, stumbling, only to be steadied by Javert’s hand. He had forgotten how having his hands cuffed altered his balance. 

They walked into La Conciergerie and down the stone steps to the jail. Very quickly, the scene became overwhelming. The distant shouts of the inmates in the dungeons, the clanging of the heavy metal gates locking behind him, the smell of unwashed bodies and refuse, the persistent chill of the stone. Javert left him, still handcuffed, in a tiny holding cell while he went next door to find the Governor. 

Left in the cell, Valjean turned his back to the door and dropped to his knees on the filthy floor, once again trying to kindle the Virgin’s peace, but it would not come. _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…_ His thoughts were in turmoil as he thought of Fantine, his factory, his workers and the tasks he had left undone. 

It was not long before Javert returned with a prison guard. Valjean awkwardly stood and turned so he could watch them. Javert was speaking as they walked up. “He is a flight risk – he tried to escape Toulon four times and he escaped the jail in Montreuil-sur-Mer by breaking loose the iron bars in the window. I am not sure how he did that – he is tremendously strong, but he may have had a file or another tool we missed.” 

“So we shall have to fully search him.” 

Valjean bowed his head, his jaw clenched. Waves of humiliation and rage threatened his control. It was not that they were not correct to search him thoroughly, he recognized that, but he had grown used to his privacy and his control over his own body. With a deep breath, he tried to calm himself. 

“I would advise it,” Javert replied. “And get him out of those clothes right away. He may be hiding just about anything in them.” 

The jailer nodded. “Will do. Well, we can take it from here, Inspector. You look like you could use some shut-eye.”

Javert stifled a yawn. “I suppose I could,” he said. “Might as well, before I have to see the Prefect tomorrow.” Javert stepped up to the bars. “Valjean!” 

Valjean did not meet Javert’s eye, instead he was looking at the inspector’s boots, his hands clenched in the cuffs as he trembled with…anger? Fear? He could not say. Javert reached into the cell with his cudgel and tucked it under Valjean’s chin, prodding his head up. Reluctantly, Valjean looked Javert in the eye. The Inspector looked Valjean over, from his face to his feet and back to his face, and then Javert slowly smiled a terrible smile, completely devoid of actual happiness. 

**End notes: Chapter 1**  
This story is mostly set during the backdrop of the Easter season. In 1823, the dates for the major feast days of the Easter season are as follows:  
Ash Wednesday: February 14  
Easter: March 30  
Pentecost Sunday: May 18


	2. The Subpoena, La Conciergerie, March and April 1823

The subpoena was not a surprise, nor was the fact that he got it a week later than he should have. Javert had returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer after the arrest of Valjean, only to be delighted when a letter came from the Prefecture of Paris promoting him to the 6th arrondissement in Paris. A replacement was being sent to Montreuil-sur-Mer, whom he was to spend several days orienting, and then he was to report to his new duties in two weeks time. The subpoena had been sent to Montreuil-sur-Mer, only to be forwarded back to Paris. 

When he finally did get it, the trial was less than a week away. He came back from his rounds to see the official letter on his desk. With his thumbnail, he broke the seal of the Paris Court of Assize and glanced over the document. He almost tossed it aside when he noticed that the trial was described as a “Capital Trial”. 

With a frown he re-read the document. Why was Valjean on trial for his life? The man had broken parole, he had stolen a few sous from a chimney sweep, he had assumed a false identity. None of those were capital crimes, even for a recidivist. 

Tucking the subpoena in his coat pocket, he left the stationhouse, caught a fiacre, and went to La Palais de Justice. By the time he arrived, the clerk was leaving for the day, but he handed Javert Valjean’s court file. Flipping through the pages, Javert frowned as he read the charges. Valjean was accused of being a part of a band of highwaymen that had been terrorizing the roads of the Provence for some time. They had been operating not far from the site of the Savoyard theft and the questionable events at the Bishop of Digne’s house. It was plausible that they were related. Several members of the gendarmerie from Provence-Alpes-Cote d’Azur had received subpoenas, including one whose name Javert recognized as having been a guard at Toulon. Javert closed the file and left the office, thoughtfully. Valjean was fundamentally a solitary sort of man. To see him described as a member of a band, perhaps even a leader of it - well, something did not sit right. 

The walk from the Palais de Justice to La Conciergerie was a short distance, but a world apart. Walking through the corridors of the jail with a guard at his side, Javert could not help but compare the jail to the bagne. Here, men of all kinds awaited trial or served out short sentences for minor crimes. They were mostly housed in giant, reeking cages with straw covering the floor and little else. The filth, the vice, the perverted behavior that flourished in this confined society would never have been tolerated in Toulon where the prisoners were kept under much tighter control and where they had so much less idle time on their hands. That is not to say Toulon was not infested– only here, it was so much worse. The guard led him past cages containing scores of men, to a corridor of individual cells. “He’s in this one,” he said. He opened the small window on the top of the door and called in, “Mayor – you got a visitor.”

Javert looked at the guard. “Mayor?” 

The guard shrugged as he took out his keys and unlocked the door. “Do you want him cuffed?” 

“No. No need.” 

The guard pulled open the door. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll be right outside. Let me know when you want out.” 

Javert stepped into the tiny cell and the guard locked it behind him. Compared to the accommodations in the dormitories, this room was positively luxurious. There was a straw mattress on a wooden platform and a tiny window that looked out on the prison courtyard. The window allowed both light and fresh air to enter. Granted, the early spring air was cold, but surely it was better than the stifling reek of the gang cells. Valjean was sitting on the bed, his arms around his knees. The thin blanket issued to him was around his shoulders. 

Valjean looked up at his visitor without interest or recognition. He had aged at least a decade in the last few weeks. His face was deeply lined, his eyes were sunken and his hair fell in white clumps around his face. He had lost a lot of weight. After a moment, Valjean got slowly to his feet, head down, and mutely held out his hands to be cuffed.

Javert had come to the prison ready to demand answers from the man. Faced with this broken specimen who barely resembled the man he knew, Javert found himself at a loss. 

Licking his lips, Javert tried to decide what tack to take. After a moment, he decided that Valjean was going to need very gentle handling if he were to get any answers from him at all. He went over and took Valjean’s cold hands lightly in his own. “No, no, Monsieur. I am just here to talk. Sit, please.” 

At his voice, Valjean looked up into his face, searching. Recognition sparked at last. “Inspector?” he whispered. “Inspector Javert?”

Javert let a faint smile cross his face. “Yes,” he replied. 

Without warning, Valjean angrily pulled his hands from Javert’s and retreated as far away from Javert as he could get. He backed into a corner. “Get away! Get away from me, Javert!” Javert watched as the flash of anger burned itself out as quickly as it came and Valjean buried his face in his hands. “Are you here to see your handiwork?” Valjean whispered. He dropped his hands and looked back at Javert. “Here to see what you have done to me? I remember you in Toulon, bragging, bragging to one of the cadets how you had trained this one, trained that one.” Valjean spat on the floor. “Well, here I am.” He spread his arms. “Proud of your work?” 

Javert felt his gut twist in revulsion. The man was a convict, yes. A criminal, forever. A firm hand was needed with men like these, but to take pleasure in their suffering? That was an abomination. Unfortunately, Javert knew just how common of an abomination it was. Javert shook his head. “Never,” he said, “Never. Monsieur, you misremember. That was not me in Toulon. It was Yont, maybe, or Robert. Never me.” 

After a decade as an Inspector, Javert continued to marvel at the power of well-chosen words. As he spoke, he could see something loosening in Valjean’s expression and he knew he would soon be able to ask the questions he had come to ask. Valjean slid slowly down the wall to sit on the floor. “Why do you call me ‘Monsieur’?” he demanded. 

Javert just looked at Valjean and did not answer. After a moment, he said, “I am here to talk to you about your trial.” 

“Oh. That.” 

Javert gestured at Valean’s bed. “May I?” he asked. 

Valjean waved his hand in consent and Javert perched on the edge of the platform. “They have subpoenaed me to testify for the state,” Javert commented after he had settled. 

“Of course.”

“They will ask me about Toulon. About Montreuil-sur-Mer.” 

Valjean nodded. “I understand.” 

“Nothing they will ask me about is a capital crime,” Javert said. 

“No,” Valjean agreed. “I expect not.” 

“Well then, Monsieur Madeleine, Monsieur Valjean, why are you on trial for your life?” 

Valjean shook his head, “I wish I knew, Inspector. I wish I knew.” 

Javert looked at Valjean, intently. “Jean Valjean,” he said, “Were you a member of that band of highwaymen, a leader of it, as your papers say?” 

Valjean met Javert’s gaze, the pain and sadness etched clearly across his face. “No,” he said, “I swear it, by God, I swear it, Inspector. I had nothing to do with those assaults except that I happened to be passing through Provence at the time.” Valjean looked at Javert, pleading. “Inspector, please. I am a thief, yes, I have committed forgery, I have broken parole, I have assumed a false name but I am not a bandit. Please, you have to believe me.” 

Javert looked back at Valjean, studying the man. Standing, he said, “I do believe you. The problem is, it is not me you have to convince. It is the Jury and the Judge.” 

With a hopeless sigh, Valjean buried his face in his hands again. 

“Monsieur,” Javert said. Valjean looked up at him, naked despair on his face. “I will see you in a few days. At the trial.” 

Javert walked over to the door and gave it a rap. The guard looked in, and then unlocked the door, letting Javert out. 

As Javert was walking out of the jail, he toyed with the coins in his pocket. Abruptly he took one out and handed it to the guard. “See to it that he is presentable for his trial, will you?” 

The guard took the coin. “Sure thing, Inspector.”

 

 **End notes: Chapter 2**  
La Conciergerie was once a castle but was converted to a jail in the 1300s. It is located near the Palais de Justice, where the Paris Assize court was based and near where the guillotine was kept. Prisoners were kept there awaiting and during trial, awaiting execution, and also for short term sentences. Most people kept at La Conciergerie were kept in huge, unventilated cages with up to 100 people. However, there were also individual cells where high profile prisoners or prisoners who could afford otherwise were kept. 

Here are some of the sources I used for this chapter. I know the quality of my sources are poor, from an academic standpoint. However, I believe in the importance of citing your sources, so here they are. 

This source is a blog post from a historical novelist about the place:  
http://blog.catherinedelors.com/la-conciergerie-from-royal-palace-to-revolutionary-prison/

This is a fun website that was done as a class project that talks more about prison in general than La Conciergerie but it gives an interesting flavor for the culture of prisons and what was going on in those giant cages.  
https://www.mtholyoke.edu/courses/rschwart/hist255-s01/thenardier/theresa/main.html

Hugo’s The Last Day of a Condemned Man is an interesting short story that was written to argue against the death penalty. The story is mostly set in Bicêtre (see chapter 3’s notes), but there are a few key descriptions of La Conciergerie and capital trial that the main character experiences. 

I found the Wikipedia article on the French Judicial system http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judiciary_of_France to be helpful in understanding the layers of the French courts. 

I read a fair bit about (modern) police views on testifying in court. Javert’s actions are directly related to his view on testifying which came out of the views of the officers on this and other websites. http://forums.officer.com/t179147/

Finally, in the book, it states that Valjean was tried in the Vars Assize in southern France. I moved it to the Paris Assize.


	3. On Death Row, Bicêtre, April to June 1823

The transfer to Bicêtre had not changed much in the last three decades, Valjean thought. He sat on the dirty floor of the open black cage, his hands and feet both in chains, his feet chained to the floor. Spectators still lined the road to jeer and spit. Only now, the crowds were worse. He was no longer an unknown peasant. There had been several newspaper stories written during the trial and by the end, his trial had become quite the spectacle. He closed his eyes and tried to create a moment of peace, but he found he no longer remembered what the statue of the Virgin at the church in Montreuil-sur-Mer looked like. Instead, the three judges in their red robes were etched in his mind, the center judge saying, over and over, ”Jean Valjean, you are sentenced to death!”

Twenty-seven years ago, it was the Aisne Assize that had convicted him. Convicts from all over the North were assembled at Bicêtre for transport to Toulon and he had been just one of so many. Those few days on the trip from Aisne to Paris had been his first time in chains for days on end. He remembered the indignity of being locked in a cage and not even being allowed to piss. He remembered arriving at Bicêtre with raw weeping sores on his wrists, before the calluses had formed. But mostly, the trip was forgotten, lost in a sea of despair.

He had been so lost. He had never been further from home than the next town over. Paris was a world away. Toulon was unimaginable. As he rode, further and further from everything he knew, all he could think of was Jeanne and her seven little ones. They were his whole world. Lost now. Gone. Looking back, those days, those years, were so unreal, like a nightmare that it had been impossible to wake from. Mercifully, like a nightmare, those memories had faded and now he mostly retained a persistent horror that haunted his dreams and terrible anger that was constantly simmering below the surface. The specifics of the events that created those emotions were lost. 

This transfer was an entirely different experience. He was too much in the now. As much as he tried not to, he could hear the cutting remarks of the crowd. The mighty bourgeois businessman was no more than a convict! Just another thief! A brigand! A murderer! He put his head on his knees and put his arms over his head, trying to block out the noise and to protect his face from the pebbles that were thrown at him. 

Sitting like that, he remembered Javert coming to visit him. He remembered Javert saying that he believed that he was not a bandit. He remembered when the prison barber had showed up in his cell on the morning his trial was to begin and clean clothes had been brought with his breakfast. He had lost interest in grooming and did not care what face he showed at the trial, but when he was told Javert had sent them, he accepted the gift. At the trial, Javert had not spoken to him, or so much as looked at him, but Javert’s testimony was precise and honest. He did not take the opportunity to make himself look good at Valjean’s expense. 

He remembered the shock when the man whom he had known as a terrible guard at Toulon, a man named Robert, had taken the stand. He had been introduced as an Inspector from Digne. Robert had testified that Valjean had been rebellious, a leader of the worst sort of man while at Toulon. He testified that other members of the brigands had been on Valjean’s crew at various times and they had been waiting for his release. Valjean listened without comprehension and growing despair. Most of what the inspector said Valjean was pretty sure had never happened. 

After Robert’s testimony, Javert had gone with the Judges into chambers, and he had come out with a face full of anger. Valjean had no idea what had happened in there, but he liked to think Javert had been defending him. Despite the horror of his situation, he smiled slightly to himself. Javert believed him. With a certain amount of wonder, he said it to himself again. _Javert believed me. JAVERT believed me! Javert believes ME!_ Like a mantra, he latched onto this thought and repeated it, over and over. 

The only good thing was that this trip was short. Within an hour, they were pulling into the gate at Bicêtre and the crowds were left outside. It was with some relief that Valjean unfolded himself and looked around the yard of the prison where he had been held briefly once before, a lifetime ago. 

*****

Valjean was trying not to count the days, but he had been to Sunday Mass at Bicêtre four times. This coming week was Pentecost, a holiday he usually enjoyed. During Pentecost, the Holy Spirit descended upon all, even Peter who had denied Jesus in his final days, even Thomas who had doubted him, even Mary Magdalene whose life was as checkered as Valjean’s own. Pentecost was egalitarian and it brought all into the faith, even men like him, especially men like him. Pentecost, which always fell in the late spring around the time the strawberries were ripening, often made him think of home, of Faverolles. There was little he remembered of the days before Toulon, but the Pentecost festival was one a few treasured memories that remained. There had been singing and dancing and the children had run about decked in chains of flowers. His very favorite part had been special little cakes made with spring honey that he never could get enough of. While other places had strawberries for Pentecost, he had never found the little cakes again. 

Sitting in the dim, damp, subterranean cell, with the eye of a guard on him, it was impossible to conjure the smell and feel of Pentecost. When he had first arrived at the prison they had removed his chains, only to put him in a shirt which wrapped his arms around his body and permitted him no motion at all. So bound, he was brought to this cell, one of three tiny, windowless, airless cells reserved for men sentenced to death. There was a plank attached to the wall with a sack of musty straw to lay on and just barely enough room to stand next to the bed. The cell was dark. It got only a tiny scrap of light through peek hole in the door. He could make out the outline of his body, the waste bucket in the corner, his bed, but little else.

His only visitor was the kindly priest named Father Michel, who came by every day. Father Michel was young enough to be Valjean’s son but Valjean soon came to like the man. Some days, on Valjean’s good days, they sat side by side on Valjean’s bed and they would say the rosary together or talk about forgiveness and faith. On the bad days, Father Michel sat with his legs drawn up on the bed while Valjean paced angrily two short steps to one side of the cell and two short steps back, demanding answers to questions that had no answers. How was his fate a part of God’s plan? Father Michel quietly reminded him that God had demanded no less from his own Son. Valjean fiercely replied, Jesus had asked God the same question. Within a few days, the priest had recommended that Valjean not be required to wear the straightjacket, that he was tremendously angry but not a danger to himself, an irony that Valjean tried not to dwell on. 

Soon after that, Valjean surprised himself by eating all of the food they brought him. The food was no worse than he remembered and eating relieved the boredom. He wondered if they were giving him less. 

After being freed from the straightjacket, he had spent days minutely examining every inch of his cell. He ran his fingers over initials painstakingly chipped into the stone and he found heavy irons rings mounted into the wall where prisoners must sometimes be chained. His fingers found tiny chinks where past inhabitants had hidden treasures. There was a scrap of a letter which he could not read, a sea shell, a golden _livre_. Each one of these he had held and wondered about the man who had hidden them, and then he had carefully replaced them in their hiding places. After a week, he stopped exploring. He did not like thinking about the endless stream of lives that had briefly passed through this cell. 

Valjean had requested that he be allowed out into the yard like the other prisoners, but his history of escape plagued him. In the end, the Warden allowed him out for an hour a day, but only with the cuffs and shackles on. To get out of that hole, to be allowed to see other faces, hear other voices, Valjean would submit to just about anything. He looked forward to that hour of daylight each day, when he emerged blinking from the darkness of his cell to sit in the sun or let the clear rain fall on his face. He was not allowed near the gate, but he could look out it, to the street beyond, where a flower seller often set his cart, and remember walking in a field near Montreuil-sur-Mer full of spring flowers and busy bees. 

Today, Valjean sat in his cell, his arms wrapped around his legs, his chin on his knees, thinking. Or, at least he was trying to think. After four weeks, the semi-dark was playing tricks on his eyes and the muffled screams and cries from elsewhere in the prison made him jumpy. At times, he would see motion out of the corner of his eye, and he was never sure if it was a mouse, or if it was the prison’s madness creeping up on him. At other times, he would hear a scrap of conversation, muffled and just barely unintelligible, or he would spin around, after feeling a touch on his shoulder. He tried not to think about the fact that he would probably not live long enough to go truly mad. 

Yesterday, Father Michel had read him a story from the Gospel of Mark that he knew well. A man had brought his son to Jesus to be healed, and he asked Jesus if he could help. _“If?”_ replied Jesus. “All things are possible for one who believes.” The man replied, “I believe! Help me in my unbelief!” and his son was healed. Sitting alone in the dark, Valjean examined his unbelief and tried to cast it away. He tried to see how any of this was to the good, how any of this was a part of God’s plan. Even if he could somehow forget his own fate, he knew the prosperity of Montreuil-sur-Mer was likely over. He knew those hundreds of people whom he had employed would have no jobs and he knew the schools and hospital would go unfunded. He knew that there was a little girl out there whom he had promised her mother that he would help. _God,_ he asked, _how is this a part of your plan? Even if I cannot understand, at least help me believe that it is._

Suddenly, he was aware that he was not alone in the cell. He could see the outline of another sitting next to him on the bed and he could hear the man’s deep, easy breathing. How long had he been here? “Father?” he asked, but the man did not reply. “Father Michel?” He reached out to touch the man, but he was no longer sitting there. A wave of panic began to creep into his gut. “Who is there?” he got up and felt around the cell, but there was no one. When he turned back to the bed, the man was sitting there again. Scared now, Valjean backed into the corner. The man spoke, very gently. “Jean,” he said “take my hands.” 

Valjean hesitantly reached out with his hands, his hands that still bore the calluses of the years of hard labor, though the skin was softer now, and he put them in the man’s. He met hands like his own, hands that had seen hard work, and then his fingers curled into the man’s palms where deep wounds could be felt. _Am I Thomas, then?_ Startled, he dropped to his knees and whispered, “Lord…”

The man put his fingers over Valjean’s lips and Valjean fell silent. “Whatever happens,” the man said, “you are not alone. I will be with you.” With his rough thumb, he traced a tiny cross on the center of Valjean’s forehead and suddenly Valjean was filled with a peace like he had never felt before. There was a wind that ruffled his hair and the room brightened as a tiny flame appeared over the man’s head, and, Valjean knew, there was another over his own. He closed his eyes as tears flowed down his face. 

Hours later, when they came to take him to the yard, the guards found him still on his knees. 

**End notes: Chapter 3**

This chapter was really hard to write and it went through many drafts because I kept thinking I was writing a reasonable description of life for Valjean in Bicêtre, and then I would do more research and discover that what I had written was not nearly harsh enough. In the end, what I have falls short. 

Bicêtre was an insane asylum and prison in Paris. At various points, little distinction was made between the criminal detainees and the mental patients. It was also the site where the chain gang for Toulon was assembled and where at least some criminals whose cases were going through appeal were kept before they were sent to the guillotine. Valjean left from Bicêtre on his first trip to Toulon, and, incidentally, Vidocq passed through there on one of his multiple trips to the bagne. 

Here are some sites with information on Bicêtre that I used while writing. From an academic standpoint, I know the quality of my sources are poor. However, I believe in the importance of citing your sources, so here they are. 

The French Wikipedia page on Bicêtre: http://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=fr&tl=en&u=http%3A%2F%2Ffr.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FBic%25C3%25AAtre

This site gives a brief description of Bicêtre and has links to some first person accounts of visiting Bicêtre in the 1800s: http://www.europeanjourneys.org/biogs/E000013b.htm

This site is a page in a book that also gives a brief description of Bicêtre  
http://books.google.com/books?id=RTH31DgbTzgC&pg=PA34&lpg=PA34&dq=Bicêtre+prison&source=bl&ots=1ctaEfPhgj&sig=rwJM6fnG0fAZCGP2hi7ncOnIyZM&hl=en&sa=X&ei=u_hWUarkGITy0wGBv4GoCg&ved=0CC0Q6AEwADgK#v=onepage&q=Bicêtre%20prison&f=false

Hugo’s Last Day of a Condemned Man mostly takes place in Bicêtre and I modeled much of Valjean’s experience, like the straightjacket and the discoveries in the cell on that character’s descriptions. 

Barricades: the war of the Streets in Revolutionary Paris 1830-1848  by Jill Harsin is a well written book and I highly recommend it. Chapter 12 deals with the imprisonments of the revolutionaries (and those unlucky enough to have been accused of being a revolutionary, even when the evidence was scanty) who survived the barricades. The time period is slightly different than this story, and they were mostly not kept in Bicêtre, but it gives the feel of the prisons where men were kept in solitary confinement for years in terrible conditions. These prisons were more like Bicêtre than Toulon, where forced labor and beatings were used to control the prisoners, instead of isolation. At least one person actually committed suicide by repeatedly bashing their head against the wall, for days. 

Another part of this chapter (and the next) is Valjean’s psychological journey. I started with the interesting ideas Carmarthen proposed in the story “No Weapon but Hate” http://archiveofourown.org/works/732136 and that is where Valjean is during the flashback when he is thinking about his first imprisonment. However, at the time this story is set, he is in a very different place. He is depressed (he refuses to offer a defense or appeal his conviction) but much more highly functioning than he would have been ten years earlier. 

I spent a fair amount of time reading poetry and writings of various modern day death row inmates. Two death row writers I particularly liked are:  
http://www.savemichaelperry.info/poetry.asp “Life in a Cage” really hit me  
http://betweenthebars.org/blogs/1581/ronald-w-clark-jr This shows this man’s hand written journals and his artwork and gives a glimpse into his daily life. 

Both death row writers brought out the importance of nature and how being on death row has resulted in them becoming very grounded in the natural world – in so far as they are allowed to be exposed to it. The connections to family and loved ones, which Valjean does not have, are also of utmost importance. 

The bible story about the man who doubted can be found in Mark 9:14-29. The story of Thomas, who had to put his fingers in Jesus’s wounds before he would believe that Jesus had risen from the dead, can be found in John 20:24-29. The story of Pentecost, which is Valjean’s vision at the end, can be found in the first two chapters of Acts.


	4. The endless night, Paris, June 1823

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene with a child prostitute, which is why the story has the underage tag.

Javert had just left the station house. He was out on patrol two hours before his shift started, but he could not bear to be anywhere else. His tiny apartment closed in on him. The company of his fellow officers over dinner seemed trite and unbearable. He had tried to read, but his mind had wandered restlessly. He had volunteered for duty tonight because he knew he would not sleep. 

He came around the corner of the church in time to see a young man painting obscenities on the side of the rectory. With a shout, he pounded down the street after the boy. The bucket of whitewash was knocked over and spilled on the street and Javert ran right through the puddle, splashing paint on his uniform. The boy would have gotten away, but he ran around the corner, out onto the bigger street and slipped on a pile of horse dung. In triumph, Javert leapt on the boy. 

***

Valjean had asked to be allowed to see the sunset and the warden had agreed. About half an hour before the sun was to set two guards came to get him. “’Evening Mayor,” the guard said. Valjean stood patiently, blinking in the late evening light, while the chains were fastened around his wrists and ankles. He even had a smile for Father Michel who arrived while the shackles were being put on. He was grateful that the priest had agreed to spend the night with him. In the last week, he had been haunted with visions. He had tried desperately to hold onto the joy of the first one, but now he wondered if the devil was tormenting him, or if he was simply going mad. He had not discussed it with Father Michel, for fear that it would mean a return to the straightjacket. 

Together the four of them walked down the corridor. Valjean had a guard on each elbow and the priest was following. The other prisoners banged on their doors making a terrible racket as Valjean passed, something Valjean recognized as a gesture of respect. The guards helped him up a flight of stairs. His shackles were barely long enough and the stairs were a chore. At the end of the hall, they opened a cell and Valjean walked in, straight to a window that had a fine view of the western sky and the sun approaching the horizon. With a delighted smile, he turned to the guards. “Can you release my hands?” 

The guard nodded. “Sure thing, Mayor. We can take it all off, if you want, but we’ll just have to put them back on when we take you back.” 

“Just my hands are fine.” 

The guard released his hands and then stepped out of the cell. He glanced at Father Michel, who had followed Valjean in, and the priest said, “I’ll stay.” The guard closed the door. 

Valjean went over to the window and took the bars in his hands, pulling his face up to look out at the sunset and take deep breaths of the outside air. In silence, he watched the sun sink into the horizon and the sky turned orange, and then purple. After a while, he commented, “How strange.” 

Father Michel, who had been standing by but saying nothing, looked at Valjean. “What, my son?” 

Valjean turned from the bars. “Why should I fear death?” he asked. “I do not fear a sunset.” 

Father Michel smiled. “True enough. If you go to death in a state of grace, there is nothing to fear. And like the sun, you will rise again in glory.” 

Suddenly Valjean turned back to the window, looking at the last remnants of purple that were fading from the sky. No matter how glorious, the sunsets always faded so quickly and no matter how hard you tried, the details faded from memory almost as fast as they occurred. _Dear God,_ he asked, _is that to be my fate?_ His breath came fast and he leaned against the wall. “You will help me, Father?” 

The priest came up and put his arm around Valjean’s shoulders. “I will help you, my son.”

****

Admittedly, Rue Barre was not the busiest of streets, but it was hardly an alley. Javert came around the corner onto the street, only half paying attention. He was picking at a spot of paint that had soaked into his jacket. He looked up to see a man leaned up against a wall with a person kneeling at his feet. It was quite obvious what was going on. Looking closer, he recognized the man as someone he had warned about this sort of public behavior not a week ago. 

Javert stalked up, interrupting the act. He laid his cudgel across the man’s chest and grabbed the person on their knees by the hair and yanked. Glaring at the man, he growled “Jacques, cover yourself up.” As the man fumbled with his pants, Javert turned his glare on the other person. It was a boy, unfamiliar to Javert. “What’s your name, kid?” 

The boy stammered, “L-l-luc, sir.” 

“Your mama know what you are doing?” 

“I don’t have a mama.”

“Figures. How old are you, Luc?” 

“Twelve, sir.” 

Javert frowned at the boy, “I doubt that.” He glanced back at Jacques and then back at the boy. Making a decision, he gave the boy a shove. “Scram, Luc. Don’t let me catch you again.” 

Wide eyed and unable to believe his luck, the boy fled. Javert watched him for a moment and then turned his attention back to the man he still held pinned to the wall with his cudgel. Leaning in close to the man, he said, “Jacques, are you stupid?” 

The man pressed himself against the wall as Javert’s face filled his vision. 

“If you are going to consort with babies, at least do it in private.” Javert hissed at the man. “You disgust me.” He took his weight off of the man and twisted him towards the wall. “You are under arrest.” 

****

Valjean shared his simple dinner with Father Michel. He asked the priest to bless the meal, and then they sat side by side on Valjean’s narrow bed. They ate the bread, the cheese, and the surprisingly pleasant wine the warden had bought with Valjean’s money. 

They spoke of small things. Valjean told the priest of a boy in Montreuil-sur-Mer who had played pranks on him for a few months. The priest told Valjean of a time in his childhood when he had gone fishing and thought he had caught a whale, only to discover a tree branch on the end of his line. They had laughed quietly together. The meal they were sharing reminded Valjean of the Bishop, so Valjean told Father Michel of how that one dinner, so long ago, had changed his path. The priest told Valjean of the first time he had celebrated Mass, and had performed the Miracle of Transubstantiation. As the meal came to an end, their conversation faded into silence that was at first companionable and then grew uncomfortable. 

After a few moments of this silence, Valjean asked, “Father, will you pray with me?”

***

There was shouting on the street, deep voices raised in anger, a crash. Javert was patrolling a half a block away and he ran toward the disturbance. He found two men grappling in the street while a small crowd gathered around, cheering and jeering. In a few places, money was changing hands. 

Javert watched the men fight for a moment. At first, they seemed unevenly matched – one man was small and wiry, the other was large and muscular. However, Javert could see immediately that the small man was the better fighter and he already had the upper hand over the much larger man. “Stop! Police!” he shouted as he shouldered his way through the spectators, cudgel loose. He came up behind the small man and brought his cudgel down on the spot where the man’s neck met his shoulder and then brought it across his lower thigh on the backswing. The man crumpled on the ground and something clattered as he fell. 

The large man stepped back, hands in the air. “Please, sir!” 

“Turn around!” Javert growled. “Keep your hands up.” 

The man complied and Javert quickly frisked him and pulled his arms down to get the handcuffs on. With a twist of his cudgel, Javert forced the man to his knees and turned his attention to the other man. 

The smaller man was on his side, half curled and groaning. Cautiously, Javert approached, his stick held up, ready to strike. Without warning, the man lunged at Javert, a knife flashing in his hands. Javert met his lunge with a flurry of swings, down across the man’s wrist, the butt of the cudgel to his upper arm, to the back of the leg. The man went down again and Javert followed him down, twisting the man’s arm around the cudgel into a lock. 

“ _Va te faire foutre!_ ” the man screamed. 

“Move again,” he growled, “And I will dislocate your shoulder.”

_“Va te faire voir!”_

Javert heard pounding feet and two constables came running up. They took in the scene. One of them quickly laid hands on the one with the cuffs on, the other pulled his own cuffs out and held them out to Javert. “Inspector,” he said. “You are lucky we heard!”

Javert growled wordlessly at the constable as he wrestled the man beneath him into the cuffs. With a deep breath, he stood and together, he and the constable lifted the man to his feet. Javert wobbled unsteadily for a moment. 

“Inspector?” 

Javert bent over and picked up the knife that had fallen from the man’s hand. He looked without comprehension at the blood dripping off his fingertips. 

“Inspector,” the constable exclaimed, “you are bleeding!” 

***

A single candle illuminated the mid-night darkness and its light glinted off the silver cross that was hung on the wall, suspended from one of those heavy iron rings that Valjean had found weeks before. Father Michel sat on Valjean’s bed while Valjean paced – two steps to one end of the tiny room and then two steps back. His steps were quick and distressed. He paused and sat down next to Father Michel, but he was a coiled spring. Sitting next to the priest, he hastily crossed himself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession.” 

****

Javert stood on Pont d’Arcole and watched as the stars faded and sky lightened to a burnished copper. The bridge had been a poor choice to watch the sunrise, but it was the only bridge that was technically in his patrol region. La Conciergerie and the Palais de Justice were just barely visible around the bend in the Seine. He wondered if they had moved Valjean yesterday, or if they would transfer him in the morning. 

He brutally quashed that thought and stormed off the bridge. Loud off-tune singing caught his ear and he saw a disheveled figure staggering through the early morning traffic on Quai de Pelletier. The man stopped and took a piss on a lamp post, but his aim was terrible and he got legs of a cabbie’s horse, waiting for a fare. The driver yelled at the man and he started to climb down from his cab. Seizing on the opportunity, Javert strolled up and waved the man back. “I’ll take care of this,” he said to the cabbie. He grabbed the drunk by the shoulder. “C’mon.” he said. 

“Of’cer,” the drunk replied. “I’m not...” 

“Shut up.” 

“I need to…” 

“I said, shut up.” 

“Sorry.” And with that, he peed on Javert’s boots. 

“For the love of CHRIST!” Javert yelled. 

“I tried..” 

“Just shut UP!” 

*** 

Eventually, Jean Valjean slept. In his sleep, there came a dream.

He was walking on pale sand, next to the sea. In his life, he had spent a lot of time near the sea, but this place was unfamiliar. Tall white cliffs rose from the sand on his left. The waves beat a gentle rhythm on his right. The sun shone on his head. The sand was firm and pleasant to walk on. With a smile of delight, he walked along the beach. 

The Bishop walked at his side. 

“I have something to show you,” the Bishop said. 

They were standing in front of the white cliff. Watching it, Valjean saw the rock begin to move. He could make out the shape of an elbow, emerging from the rock. Enormous muscles were tensed as the upper arm and shoulder became visible. Valjean watched as the man struggled and inch by inch the broad back emerged from the rock. The man’s muscles were trembling with the effort. And then, expended, the back began to sink back into the rock, only to fight back and this time the broad curve of a hip emerged. Valjean watched. It was grotesque. It was fascinating. 

After a while, he realized that this man was only one of many. As he looked along the smooth rock of the cliff (or was he standing inside the dockyard at Toulon, looking at the great gate?) he saw others struggling mightily to free themselves from the rock. As he watched, one man had pushed his entire upper body free except his hands, his tremendous shaggy head tipped up to the sun. With a gasp, Valjean recognized himself. 

“What is this?” Valjean asked the Bishop. 

“They are souls,” the bishop replied. “Struggling to be free. Struggling to reach God.” 

Valjean turned and walked down toward the ocean, letting the cold water wash over his bare feet, and then fall back, only to come back and wash over them again. He stood, feeling water swirl around his ankles, the sand wash away from under his soles. In front of him, the setting sun turned the ocean orange and purple and red. Valjean watched, feeling only peace. 

***

“Javert! Another one?”

“Good god, Javert! What happened to you?”

“Leave some bad guys for the rest of us!” 

“What’s that, four?” 

“No, six.” 

“He’s collecting misdemeanors. He’s almost got the full set.”

“What got into you, Javert?”

“Six? Dear god – you are going to be doing paperwork until dinner!” 

It was shift change and the station house’s workroom was crowded. Javert ignored the commentary of his fellow officers as he dragged the cut-purse back to the holding cells, where the rest of his night’s work waited. He shoved the man in the cell and stomped over to his desk. 

He was truly in a state. His uniform was ripped from the knife wound and the bandage could be seen through the gap in the fabric. There was paint, blood, piss and filth spattered on him. His hair, usually impeccably combed and tied back, was tangled and loose. 

The commissionaire walked through the workroom and stopped in front of Javert’s desk. Javert was filling out a booking form. He stood there until Javert looked up. 

“Care to explain yourself?” the commissionaire asked. 

With deliberate insolence, Javert looked back down at his paperwork and continued writing. “No.”

The commissionaire shook his head at Javert. “I didn’t think so,” he said. He reached out and took the pen from Javert’s hand. “Go home, Javert.” 

“But…” 

“We will take care of the paperwork. Get out of here. You have time to get cleaned up and be there, if you want.” 

Javert growled. “I don’t want. I want to be working.” 

The Commissionaire sighed. “Go home, clean up. If you want to come back, you can, but you will be on desk duty.” 

With an exasperated sigh, Javert stood. “Yes, sir.” 

***

Morning had come to Bicêtre and the prison was waking. The quiet of the night was gone. Valjean, who had slept a few peaceful hours, stirred and sat up on his bed. The dream faded, but the peace it evoked clung to his waking mind. He looked across the cell, surprised to see that Father Michel was still there. The priest’s cassock was wrinkled, a rosary dangled in his fingers, but he was not praying. He was watching Valjean. “I am glad you got some sleep,” he said. 

Valjean swallowed, trying not to think about the fact that he would probably never sleep again. He sat up. “I’ve heard it said that confession is good for the soul. Thank you, Father.” 

The priest smiled gently. “I just listened, my son. God calls us to serve our brothers.” 

As Valjean swung his legs to the floor, he looked sharply at the door. He could hear the clanking and groaning as the door was being unlocked and opened. “Father?” he asked, as a wave of panic rose up out of the pleasant calm. 

The door opened and the warden stood in the doorway, flanked by two guards. Valjean stood to face them and Father Michel came to stand by his side. “Is it time?” he asked. 

The warden actually smiled. Valjean did not know what that meant. The warden unfolded a letter and read, “By order of his royal highness, King Louis XVIII, the sentence of death for Jean Valjean is hereby commuted to life imprisonment with hard labor. He is to be remanded to the galley at the earliest convenience of the prison authorities.” 

The world spun around Valjean. There was a loud roaring. Suddenly it felt like the floor was no longer under his feet. His knees gave way and the ground came rushing up. 

***

Javert had not intended to go. He had left his apartment, dutifully scrubbed and wearing a clean uniform, to walk back to the stationhouse, only to find his feet carrying him over the Pont au Change and onto Île de la Cité. He stood in the wide open square and looked at the hideous tower of the guillotine. Much to his surprise, there were no crowds, just people wandering through the square on their private business. He panicked – had he missed it? Was he too late? Did he have the day wrong? He stopped someone. “What happened to the execution that was scheduled for today?” The man shrugged and walked on. Desperate, he asked another person and another. No one knew. Finally, it occurred to him to ask the two guardsman who always stood beneath Madame La Guillotine. 

“Didn’t you hear?” one said. 

“The king pardoned the old crook,” the other guard added. 

The first one spat on the ground. “She’ll go hungry today.” 

Shaking with an emotion he could not identify, Javert caught himself on a lamp pole as his legs suddenly went weak. “Pardoned? Are you sure?” 

“Well, commuted to life in the galleys,” one of the guards replied. 

“Did you know him, Inspector?” the other guard asked. 

Javert looked at the guard blankly. After a moment, he nodded. “I arrested him.” 

The man shook his head in sympathy. “Sorry to hear that.” 

Javert looked into the distance. After a moment, he said, “It is better this way.” 

**End notes: Chapter 4**  
Executions in this period seemed to have been carried out in a sort of haphazard way. Unlike modern executions that are scheduled months in advance and everyone who wants to know when they will occur can know, in the time period in which this story is set, a prisoner may find out that the execution is about to be carried out when the guards show up at their door to take him away to the guillotine. While it is conceivable that Valjean may have had a day’s warning, it is questionable that Javert would have found out in advance. There is also not a lot of evidence for a “last meal” given the unannounced way in which executions were carried out, but money bought privilege in Bicêtre and La Conciergerie. While I do not see Valjean spending extravagantly, a simple last meal of something other than prison food seems possible. 

Valjean’s comment about the sunset is paraphrased from a quote by George MacDonald (1824-1905). “How strange this fear of death is! We are never frightened at a sunset.”

The map I got the street names from can be found here. It is dated 1834, 11 years after this story. Hopefully it didn’t change too much. http://rumsey.geogarage.com/maps/g0890195_194.html

Valjean’s dream requires attribution. It is set on the beaches of Normandy, which, Valjean may or may not have ever actually seen with his own eyes. But Montreuil-sur-Mer was just a few days journey north of Normandy so he probably heard of them. The figures in the cliff are inspired by Michelangelo’s sculptures of the Unfinished Slaves. I need to thank the novel The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell for both introducing me to these remarkable sculptures and to the bishop’s interpretation.


	5. The Chain Gang, Bicêtre, July 1823

It was early in the morning of what promised to be a hot July day. The sun was not yet high enough in the sky to clear the prison wall and a small chain gang of some fifty men were being riveted together in the morning shade. The prisoners sat on the mercifully cool stone of the yard, waiting. Javert walked between the rows of men as the prison blacksmiths went from man to man, hammering the rivets into the heavy square collars. He looked into the face of each man, and after a few minutes, he found who he was looking for. 

Valjean sat cross-legged near the end of one row, his cuffed hands folded in his lap. The blacksmith had not yet made it to him. When Javert stopped in front of him, the convict looked up. For a moment, a flash of what could have been genuine pleasure crossed Valjean’s face, but then it was gone. 

“Javert…pardon…” Valjean was flustered and he stopped to correct himself. “Monsieur Inspector, I was hoping I would see you before I left.” 

Javert quirked an eyebrow at the audacity of the man. He gave Valjean a prod with his cudgel in the middle of the chest, knocking him off balance. “Convict,” he growled, “you forget yourself.” It was a small satisfaction to see Valjean’s reaction as a flash of hurt crossed his eyes. Javert tsked. “That is not the man I remember. You were stronger than that, 24601. Have you grown soft?” Javert walked around the seated man, letting his cudgel drag across his shoulders. Valjean flinched at the light touch, anticipating a strike that never came. He kept his eyes forward as Javert walked behind him and then came back to face him. The cudgel came to rest under his chin, forcing him to look up. 

“You are looking much better than you did at the trial. I expected to come here to see them chaining a corpse into the gang,” Javert remarked. 

Javert could see the tension in Valjean’s body as he struggled to control the involuntary trembling that threatened to disgrace him. He remembered a time when Valjean could face any guard, no matter how sadistic, and keep his pride. Ruthlessly, Javert kept his cudgel in contact with the man, letting it come to rest on his knee. 

Valjean clenched his hands into white fists. Suddenly, it seemed, he made a decision. He quickly glanced up at Javert. “Monsieur Inspector, sir.” Valjean spoke quickly, watching Javert out of the side of his eye. “I want to thank you.” 

Javert looked at Valjean, clearly surprised. The cudgel fell away from Valjean’s leg. “What was that, convict?”

Valjean repeated himself. “I want to thank you, sir.” 

The cudgel came back to his chin. “Thank me for what?” 

“For your kindness. For your testimony.” 

“My testimony? Are you serious?” 

Valjean shook his head, “No. No, sir. You spoke the truth – no more, no less. It was the testimony of that _salaud_ …pardon,” he added quickly, flinching as Javert lifted the cudgel, “of the Inspector from Digne that got me the death sentence. You know, as well as I, that almost nothing he said was true.” Valjean flinched again, but the blow never came. Javert brought his cudgel down and rested it on Valjean’s knee. When Javert kept looking at him in stony-faced silence, he continued, “I am told, sir, that you went to the judges in chambers, to protest the perjury of…of Ro...Inspector Robert. I was told, sir, they rebuked you.” 

How did he know that? Javert wondered. Rebuke was, if anything, too mild of a word for the tongue lashing he had received from the judges. The judges had informed the prosecuting attorney. The attorney had mentioned it to the Prefect, who was not pleased to hear that his new Inspector had behaved so unprofessionally. He had been written up, a reprimand placed in his file. 

“Your point?” 

“Just that I am grateful to you.”

Javert looked at Valjean, “I did not do it for you.” 

Valjean looked back at Javert, meeting his eyes with a quiet compassion that Javert found almost unbearable. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to look away, to glare back at Valjean until the convict dropped his eyes. 

“You puzzle me, 24601. You are being sent to Toulon for the rest of your life, where you will be worked to exhaustion every single day. You are no longer a young man. Yet you seem positively radiant about this turn of events. Wouldn’t a quick death have been better than the slow, painful one you now face?” 

With a sad smile, Valjean looked down at his hands, cuffed in his lap. “I know you do not believe it, Inspector, but I am a different man than the one who went to Toulon a lifetime ago. As long as I am alive, I can repent for my sins, which are many. As long as I am alive, I have hope that I may again walk the world as a free man.” 

Javert’s lips twitched into a façade of a smile. “You plan to escape?” 

With wide-eyed innocence, Valjean looked back. “Of course not, Monsieur Inspector. I learned my lesson last time. I hope for a pardon, that’s all.” 

Javert snorted and gave Valjean another rough prod. “Somehow, I doubt that. Even you can’t think you will be that lucky.” 

He looked down at Valjean for what was sure to be the last time, thinking back to the sullen, angry man who had last been at Toulon and to the reserved, gentle man who reigned at Montreuil-sur-Mer. The blacksmith was finishing up the man next to Valjean and would soon be turning his attention to the old convict. Tucking his cudgel under his arm, he said, “Good bye, Jean Valjean. I doubt we will see each other again,” and he turned to walk away. After a single step he paused and looked back, meeting Valjean’s eyes. “Jean,” he said softly, “don’t let Toulon make you stupid.” 

The blacksmith came around behind Valjean, who silently lifted his chin as the collar was put around his neck. Javert could feel Valjean’s eyes on him as he picked his way through the yard and walked out of the gate. 

**End notes: Chapter 5**

A picture of the riveting of a chain gang can be seen here: http://www.parisenimages.fr/fr/popup-photo.html?photo=9571-9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a huge thank you to  
> \- Miss M who beta'ed this (and also read a half written rough draft). She corrected my grammar in three different languages and made numerous suggestions that improved the flow of the story.   
> \- Carmarthen who made a number of suggestions to a different story, but those pointed out common mistakes in my writing, so that made this story work much better.   
> \- lsl who gave this a final proof and put up with me for the month that I agonized over this story every night. :)
> 
> Obviously any errors that remain are mine.


End file.
